“I wouldn’t dump you overboard. I’d let your body fall into the ocean if the bullets took you in that direction. Norman ’s, too.” She walked to the end of the table, watching as Fletcher lined up his cue on a solid red ball. “I heard a smaller boat coming and going again. Have you kidnapped anyone else?”

He made his shot, crisp, clean, two solid-colored balls pivoting into pockets. But he didn’t answer her.

“Is Lizzie Rush on board?” Abigail asked. “Are we on our way to meet her somewhere? Maine, maybe? Estabrook mentioned her grandmother had a house there.”

Fletcher walked around the table, standing close to Abigail as he sized up another shot. “You know more about Miss Rush than you let on to Mr. Estabrook.”

“Not much more. Simon Cahill met Estabrook at a Fast Rescue fund-raiser held at the Rush family’s hotel in Boston last summer. My fiancé is the founder and director of Fast Rescue. But you know that already, don’t you?”

Fletcher leaned far over the table and angled his cue sharply. “It’s good that you didn’t lie about that one, love,” he said, making another perfect shot.

“I’m not the one with something to hide. For example, kidnapping a police officer.” She fought more seasickness, bile rising in her throat. “Not going to tell me Estabrook’s plan for me, are you?”

“There is one. Have no doubt of that.”

“You don’t sound very enthusiastic.” Abigail stepped back away from the table, giving him room for another difficult shot. “You don’t like this, do you? You’re a professional, and Norman ’s a brilliant, narcissistic, crazed amateur. He’s off the reservation, isn’t he?”

“Perhaps you should vomit and get it over with.”

She ignored his remark. “If you had your way, what would you do, put a bullet in my head and dump me overboard?”

“No profit in that, love.” He tapped a ball into a side pocket. “Does talking keep you from vomiting?”

She almost smiled. “So far, so good.”

Eyeing the remaining balls on the table, he said, without looking at her, “There’s a way you can help me. If you do, I’ll help you when the time comes.”

“What can I do for you?”

Fletcher positioned his cue for another shot. “You can tell me what you know about Will Davenport.”

This was a surprise. “He’s a friend?”

“Once upon a time.”

Abigail considered her answer and decided there was little risk to the truth. “I’m sure I know less about him than you do. He and Simon were friends before Simon hooked up with Fast Rescue. I’ve never met Davenport, but I understand he’s a wealthy British noble, a former military officer. I don’t know the details, but I suspect he and Simon didn’t meet over tea and crumpets.”

“Correct. They did not.”

“Simon worked in counterterrorism before he went undercover after Estabrook. I’ve wondered if he was on to some kind of drug-terrorism connection there. What about you, Fletcher? How do you know Davenport?”

He fired off another shot without answering.

“You were with the good guys?”

“I was with them. I wasn’t one.”

His hard, quick shot sent balls banging into each other, richocheting off the sides of the table.

Abigail maintained her composure. “ Davenport provided assistance-voluntarily-with the Ireland end of a case we wrapped up earlier this summer involving a serial killer.”

“Then Will hasn’t been to Boston?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“I believe you. Now,” Fletcher said, moving around the table, his tone unchanged, “tell me about Fiona O’Reilly.”

He caught Abigail totally off guard, which, she realized, had been his intention. She couldn’t stop herself. The images of the previous day and her fear for Fiona were too much. Bile rose in her throat, and she stumbled. Fletcher moved fast, grabbing her, half carrying her to the bathroom, shoving her in front of the toilet. She vomited until she had nothing left inside her, then dry heaved for a few more minutes.

Finally, spent, eyes tearing and bloodshot, hands shaking, she splashed herself with cold water and looked at her reflection. She was bruised, ashen. “Owen,” she whispered. “Give me strength. I love you so much.”

When she turned, Fletcher was in the doorway. “I have to leave for a while,” he said, impassive. “We can talk later. I’ll let you get some sleep.”

When she was alone again, Abigail lay down flat on the carpeted floor next to the pool table and closed her eyes.

In through the nose for eight.

Hold for eight.

Out through the mouth for eight.

“Again,” she said, ignoring the tears trickling down her temples into the carpet.

In for eight. Hold for eight.

Out for eight.

Chapter 19

Boston, Massachusetts

4:15 p.m., EDT

August 26

Fiona O’Reilly relaxed slightly when she entered the Whitcomb Hotel on Charles Street, her small lap harp in a soft case over one shoulder, and saw Jeremiah Rush in the lobby. The hotel was so elegant with its antiques and shining brass, but Jeremiah, she thought, was amazing.

And she desperately wanted to relax.

She’d practiced for hours in the drawing room at the Garrison house. Owen wasn’t around, but the foundation’s staff was back at work and police cars stopped by. Tom Yarborough, Abigail’s partner, came into the drawing room at one point and asked her if she’d remembered anything else about yesterday. She’d said no and resumed practicing. Now she wondered if she shouldn’t have. If she should have just told him. But what if she was wrong? What if she was just being stupid? Hundreds of people had been on Beacon Street yesterday who could have planted the bomb in Owen’s car. The man she’d seen…

She lowered her harp off her shoulder. She was proud of herself for having screwed up the courage to visit Scoop. Seeing him so vulnerable was awful, but she’d done it. She hadn’t chickened out. Turning down police protection hadn’t made her afraid. The opposite. The prospect of bodyguards, even police bodyguards, scared her more than being on her own. She was an adult now and could decide for herself. She felt empowered.

She pulled herself out of her thoughts and greeted Jeremiah. “I’m here early. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Of course not.” He got up from the dark wood desk, rumored to have belonged to his great-something-grandfather Whitcomb, and walked around to her. “I heard about the fire at your father’s house yesterday. How is everyone? Are you okay? Were you there?”

“I was there but I wasn’t hurt. It was pretty frightening. I didn’t sleep much last night, but I practiced most of the day. That always helps. I’ve been working on a Mozart concerto for flute and harp.” She gave Jeremiah what even felt like a strained smile. “Of course I slipped in a few Irish tunes.”

He frowned at her. He wore a light tan suit that didn’t have a single wrinkle. He was working reception right now, but he seemed willing to do a variety of jobs. Fiona had seen him running a vacuum last week. “I can tell you’ve been through an ordeal,” he said. “I saw on the news one of the detectives was badly hurt-”

“Scoop. His real name’s Cyrus Wisdom. He’s doing much better today. I’m not supposed to talk about the fire while it’s still under investigation.” That was the response Lucas Jones had suggested she give to any questions. He’d strictly forbidden her from talking about Abigail. Fiona made herself smile again. “I came here to get away from everything for a while.”

“Whatever we can do, let us know.”

“Thanks.” She changed the subject. “I thought I’d work some on planning our Ireland trip.”

“My brother Justin’s there now,” Jeremiah said, heading back behind the desk. “He’s a bellman at our Dublin hotel. He’s a natural. I swear he’d stay a bellman if our dad would let him. Mum wouldn’t care. She just wants us to be happy.”